My Cultural Diet

Ever since reading Reckless, I’ve been on the lookout for more crime noir comics. Image Comics’ Newburn features artwork by Jacob Phillips, who was the colorist on Reckless, and a story by Chip Zdarsky (Daredevil, Sex Criminals). The premise is interesting — Easton Newburn is a former detective who now works as a neutral private investigator for the city’s biggest crime gangs — and there’s all of the back-stabbing, double-crossing, and noir-ish intrigue you could ask for. But Newburn is far from a sympathetic antihero, as is his assistant Emily, so it’s hard to really care about their fate even when they’re in the crosshairs of one gang or another. Which is a shame, because the premise feels rife with thematic material (e.g., power, corruption, politics). So far, Reckless remains my favorite crime/noir comic title.

There’s a lot to like about Gideon Falls, right up until the final page. Jeff Lemire’s storyline blends horror, philosophy, sci-fi, small town mystery, and family drama as the characters try to solve the mystery of the Black Barn, a bizarre structure that holds the secrets of the universe — and possibly all of its terrors, too. Andrea Sorrentino’s artwork is phenomenal, with a sense of scope and style that perfectly matches Lemire’s storyline even at its most bizarre and trippy. There were several spreads that almost took my breath away, and several visuals that were delightful in their meta-ness. It’s a shame, then, that Gideon Falls’ ends on a cliché that probably seemed clever, but it really just feels like a narrative copout compared to the sense of ambition on display in the preceding pages.

Neil Gaiman brings the story of Morpheus, King of Dreams, to an end following the events of Volume 9. Functionally, it’s all about Gaiman tying up loose ends and various narrative threads that popped up throughout the series, from Morpheus’ immortal friend to his unique bond with a certain Elizabethan playwright to the fates of certain characters who have been in his bad graces. My favorite storyline, however, focuses an exiled Chinese sage and his brush with the world of dreams. Having finished all of the Sandman volumes, it’s easy to see why they’re held in such high regard; they’re a truly unique achievement, comic book or otherwise. That said, I admit to feeling somewhat underwhelmed. There were definitely parts that I found beautiful, thought-provoking, and moving. There were other parts, however, that dragged or were otherwise indulgent.

The most ambitious Sandman volume to date, with Neil Gaiman wrapping up several storylines from previous volumes as Morpheus is forced to finally confront his past sins and mistakes, and the impact that they’re having on his realm. It is a bit odd to read a comic series that is clearly self-contained, especially given that we live in an age of nigh-endless sequels, reboots, retcons. As a result, there’s a truly tragic and melancholy bent to Gaiman’s storyline, as Morpheus moves towards the inevitable end. But there are plenty of little details and side stories woven in, as well.

I was a bit cool on this volume at first, with its disjointed stories told by a group of travelers — some of whom are human, some of whom are not — trapped in a mysterious inn during a “reality storm.” But it really grew on me as it continued. In some ways, this volume really feels like Neil Gaiman flexing his storytelling muscles, be it a bizarre seafaring tale or a story from a death-obsessed city of morticians. Given that Morpheus, Lord of Dreams, only shows up in glorified cameos, Worlds’ End can feel particularly distant from the central Sandman mythos, but that doesn’t make it any less enjoyable.

My least favorite Sandman volume so far. It possesses some cool ideas and concepts (e.g., the family taking care of the head of Morpheus’ son, the nigh-immortal beings living amongst us) and Gaiman’s references are quite clever in places (e.g., the Isaac Newton one). However, the actual storyline — Dream and his sister Delirium set off in search of their brother Destruction, who abdicated his duties and left their family 300 years ago — never really grabbed me. It felt too disjointed, with none of the urgency found in previous volumes’ storylines.

This series of short stories is largely disconnected from the larger Sandman mythos; Morpheus appears in each of them, though often as a glorified cameo. But I think that lets Gaiman be a little freer and looser, and explore other angles of the character. My favorite stories are probably “Three Septembers and a January,” which follows a fictionalized account of Joshua Abraham Norton (the first and only emperor of the United States) and “August,” in which Augustus Caesar disguises himself as a beggar and talks about his dreams for the Roman Empire. However, my absolute favorite is “Ramadan,” the very first Sandman story I bought. Neil Gaiman’s storytelling is beautiful, P. Craig Russell’s artwork is gorgeous, and the story ends on a final twist that makes it all the more poignant.

As I was reading A Game of You, I realized that this was the very first Sandman story that I ever read. I was probably a junior in high school, and my friend Leah — who was into all sorts of cool art and music — introduced me to The Sandman. One of the big angles of this book is that it prominently features both a transgender character (Wanda) and a lesbian couple in a very positive light, which I’m sure was plenty controversial/revolutionary back in the early ’90s. At the same time, I’m curious how the magical limitations placed on Wanda because she’s still biologically male would be perceived today. It’s an interesting bit of world-building to be sure, though it doesn’t affect Wanda’s heroism or how the characters actually view her in the storyline. Gaiman considers this his favorite storyline.

I’m probably in the minority here, but I actually enjoy 2005’s Constantine, which stars Keanu Reeves as the occultist John Constantine. However, that’s probably because I hadn’t yet read Dangerous Habits, on which the movie is loosely based. Very loosely based. Indeed, our protagonist’s lung cancer aside, they’re basically different stories entirely. And as much as I like Keanu, Dangerous Habits has the better story. There’s something so quintessentially Constantine-esque about seeing him try to con the Lords of Hell only to then wallow in a pit of misery, regret, and self-hatred. By comparison, Constantine’s story about the Devil’s son and the Lance of Longinus is just silly. (I am, of course, still planning to see Constantine 2.)

In some ways, this is the grimmest of the Reckless series so far, as Ethan gets drawn into a woman’s quest for revenge on her abusers, only to fall in love with her — which requires him to sacrifice some ideals and surrender to some of his worst impulses. But like all of the Reckless titles, none of its exploitative or gratuitous. To Brubaker’s credit, the whole affair is tinged with melancholy and regret, given the narrative’s flashback framing device.

This volume focuses less on Ethan Reckless, and more on his closest friend and co-worker, Anna, as she investigates a potentially haunted mansion for a faded B-movie screen queen. Again, this feels like Brubaker working through yet another nostalgic interest (e.g., his obsession with murder house tales and old horror cinema). But as with other volumes, there’s deeper stuff in there, as Anna works through her complicated relationship with her mother. And it ends with what might be the most genuinely sweet moment in the series to date.

I continue to enjoy Ed Brubaker and Sean Phillips’ Reckless series. The series is obviously indebted to Brubaker’s nostalgia from being a Navy brat and drawing from his various experiences. In this case, growing up in California in the ’70s and ’80s during the rise of the Satanic Panic — which is kind of like catnip for me, given my own evangelical background. But this volume also becomes a commentary on the post-hippie disillusionment, and even weaves in some commentary on the experience of Vietnamese refugees. All while being a really good hard-boiled P.I. noir.

The first volume of Ed Brubaker and Sean Phillips’s ’80s-set noir about a former revolutionary/undercover agent turned washed up and cynical P.I. — which is really the best kind of P.I., right? Now, I’m not saying that I want every graphic novel turned into a streaming title, but if Netflix or Amazon Prime ever turned Reckless into a series, then I’d totally watch it — so long as they capture the early ’80s California vibe, which isn’t merely nostalgic in Brubaker’s storytelling, but vibrant and seedy in equal parts.

I didn’t realize this was the third Reckless volume when I picked it up at the library. That, however, did nothing to diminish my enjoyment of this hard-boiled noir set in L.A. during the ’80s, in which a cinephile P.I. investigates a shady real estate tycoon — with predictably seedy and violent results. I’ve already put holds on all of the other Reckless volumes that I can.

This feels like the first consistently great Sandman volume, where Gaiman’s writing really hits his stride. The overarching storyline — Morpheus journeys to hell to retrieve a lover whom he condemned there thousands of years ago — plays out in all sorts of fascinating ways, culminating in Lucifer concocting a plan to shut down hell. Lots of fantastic ideas and imagery, and I’m intrigued by how Gaiman weaves his pantheon and theology together (e.g., the relationship between heaven and hell, the purpose of hell, Lucifer’s regrets). While not exactly orthodox, it’s imaginative and thought-provoking nevertheless.

This collection of disconnected stories isn’t the greatest Sandman volume that I’ve read, but it does feature what is often considered one of the best Sandman stories: Neil Gaiman’s spin on Shakespeare’ A Midsummer Night’s Dream. I also enjoyed “Façade,” in which an immortal superhero (Element Girl) longs for the release of death due to her isolated existence. I don’t know if this was Gaiman’s intent, but it’s a nice deconstruction of superpowers; we think it’d be cool to have them, but we never consider the cost they might have on our soul and sanity.

I’m still slowly making my way through Neil Gaiman’s Sandman series. My favorite story is that of Hob Gadling, a man who thinks death is dumb and as such, simply refuses to die — which makes him an interesting companion for Morpheus, and allow Gaiman to make various comments on human nature and civilization (e.g., the more things change, the more they stay the same). The serial killer convention is goofy and weird and totally comic book-y — and utterly chilling. As for the appearance of G.K. Chesterton, well, that’s just fun.

A collection of stories about each of Dream’s Endless siblings (e.g., Death, Desire). Each story is illustrated by a different artist, so they’re all wildly different in tone and atmosphere. Apparently the first comic to ever land on the New York Times Bestseller List. I thought it was OK.

It’s interesting to read this while watching the first season of Netflix’s Sandman series; the adaptation is pretty faithful and the deviations either take nothing away or actually improve on things. As might be expected, these earliest stories don’t have quite the grace of the later ones, and even include some details that feel like they’re present just to be edgy and shocking. Which are qualities not usually associated with Neil Gaiman.

I was really looking forward to Ron Marz and Ron Lim, who helmed the Silver Surfer comic when I first discovered it back in high school, return to the Sentinel of the Spaceways. Alas, this was a disappointment. Lim’s artwork had lost its mid-’90s edge and the storyline — the Surfer teams up with Thanos to retrieve one of the Infinity Gems — felt like a retread. It might’ve helped if the series had been longer than five issues, as there were some interesting threads in there, but overall, not my favorite Surfer title.